


Deja Vu

by okaywhateverokayyes



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaywhateverokayyes/pseuds/okaywhateverokayyes
Summary: Michael imagines this to be deja-vu ; the terseness in Alex’s responses, the fidgetiness in his posture as he maintains his distance-a sizeable one-farthest away from Michael.It’s the familiarity in the way they are both ignoring the giant inflated proverbial elephant tethered to them and instead fixating on the path ahead of them.





	Deja Vu

 

They’re-

 

Having a moment, _lack of a better word_.

 

Michael imagines this to be deja-vu ; the terseness in Alex’s responses, the fidgetiness in his posture as he maintains his distance- _a sizeable one_ -farthest away from Alex.

 

It’s the familiarity in the way they are both ignoring the giant inflated proverbial elephant tethered to them and instead fixating on the path ahead of them.

 

There’s a trail crosscut through Salt Creek.

 

The sun is smoldering, his cheeks flushed, strands of hair stuck to his temple-unseemly and wayward. Michael swipes his hand across his forehead, avoids glancing at the way his sleeve stuck to his skin as his sweat soaked through.

 

“Alex-“

 

Michael’s interrupted brusquely. “I don’t want to-“ he doesn’t finish.

 

Doesn’t have to.

 

 _I don’t want to think about it. Talk about it. Hear about it. Know about it._ All were a betting chance of befitting his terse remark. Usually it’s either followed by, _let’s forget about it_ or if there was an ounce of novelty to it, he’d be asked how things were with him-as if it warranted an answer.

 

Michael watches Alex from his periphery, notices the way he has his hands curled into fists, the manner in which he treads with the weight on his shoulders displacing into every stride he makes. He’s listless as he pats his right leg, tries to do it covertly, unassumingly-not wanting to draw any attention to himself.

 

Yet, when his pace slows down, Michael matches it, taking it upon himself to say: “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

 

They both accept it, and trudge leisurely.

 

Michael’s quaffing his third beer, feels only a slight buzz as he reaches for his fourth. It’s not remotely enough to veil the awfully familiar situation unfolding in front of him, but it’s _something_.

 

He’s wiping the sod under his sole against slabs of bedrock that pass by him.

 

He’s tired, jaded- _exhausted_. There’s a heaviness that sits on his chest that has him straining to focus. His eyes are damp, maybe from the sun-maybe from the inward anger that craves to project ostensibly out.

 

He’s dejected.

 

There’s silence between them that cuts through the stillness of the arid air, stilled wetland, cumbersome backwoods. The uneasiness that settles between them is palpable and suffocating. It saws through him like a jaded blade and gashes him with every labored breath.

 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath. He plucks at his jeans where they stuck wetly to his thigh, “Fuck this, I’m going home.”

 

Alex’s ahead of him, within ear-shot. He’s resting against the trunk of pinyon, eyes sauntering aimlessly. He makes no attempt to glance in his direction.

 

Frustrated, Michael snaps, “It won’t happen again-“ his voice is strained, the knot in his throat threatens to escape his lips so he has to snap his jaw shut as he contains himself.

 

 _The impromptu embracing, the languid touches, the soft but fleeting glances_.

 

It won’t happen again.

 

“-I can fucking promise _you_ that much.” He musters up, because _shit_. The muted conversation that drowns them is threatening to breach his sanity. Words are left unsaid, unspoken yet expressed with empty gestures and wasted stares.

 

He’s unable to contain a lid on his sentiments and it renders him incapable of _functioning_.

 

Michael stilts on his heel, takes one step, two, three-

 

“So-“ Alex whispers so quietly, if it weren’t for the fact that Michael-breath abated-hadn’t focused earnestly on dulling the thrumming and humming of the surroundings: just in-case.

 

Michael stills.

 

“-who is she?”

 

 He frowns.

 

“Who is _who_?” He asks exasperated, his back to Alex.

 

“I saw you, at the flying saucer,” his voice is hesitant, wavering, unsure, “Is she…your-“

 

He flips around, glances at Alex for a split second-only to find him scowling. Absorbed in his thoughts. Tentative. Knowing. A sharp crease appears between his eyebrows, his eyes now holding mine.

 

“ _What_.” Michael sputters. He’s not expecting that. In fact, he has to wonder what exactly he was being asked, unsure of why it was being asked, what it stemmed from, why it mattered but instead he says: “It _doesn’t_ matter.” Because he didn’t owe him an answer.

 

Alex bristles. It’s not what he wants to hear.

 

“Why won’t you answer my question?”

 

Michael tries to ignore the way Alex keeps steadily gazing at him, keen and restless eyes that pierce into him.

 

“Why does it _matter_?” He presses, unwilling to offer something that would mitigate his curiosity.

 

Alex makes a frustrated sound as he jerks away. He takes broad strides towards him, crosses his arms naturally across his chest as he catches his gaze, once more.

 

When-

 

_-he turns on the TV, Alex finally wakes up._

_He groans, rubs at his eye with his hand. “What time is it?”_

_Michael glances down at his lap, flips his phone over in his hand before reaching over the mattress and sliding it into the pocket of his jeans._

_He has one leg pressed against the footboard, his other slipped under the bedspread. Michael has his back to the slat, running his fingers harshly against the back of his neck, jaded._

_“Late.”_

_Alex snorts under his breath. He kicks his hands out from underneath the pillow, swiping his wrist across temple as he lets out a drowsy yawn._

_“Well,” Alex rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes again. Mumbles: “Why didn’t you wake me up?”_

_Michael shrugs, well-aware that Alex could not see him do so._

_Truth was, though, he didn’t want to wake him up because he just didn’t want to. Because seeing him sleep in his bed felt so fucking comforting. Because he didn’t want it to end. Because it would come to an end. Last night. This day. This moment._

_Alex’s eyes are still closed as he asks: “When did you wake up?”_

_Michael flicks through the channels._

_“Early.” He offers._

_This time, Alex lets out a chuckle. He doesn’t look at Michael as he shakes his head-_

_Alex sounds-_

_Jaded._

_Tired._

_Mostly, amused._

_“How early?” He asks anyway, a smile seeping through his words._

_Michael grumbles. He shrugs his shoulders once more before stretching his hands over his head._

_He’s used to it- being an asshole._

_“Early”. He repeats._

_Alex turns over, a half-smile appearing on his face, equal parts sarcastic and resigned._

_“Alright, Locke Lomara.” He grins._

_Michael looks away, not wanting Alex to see his flushed face. He runs a hand through the ends of his hair, tugging on them to re-focus._

_He’s frustrated and slightly jarred by it all- he has to ponder strenuously how someone is capable of stringing him along as if he was a taut doll. He feels jilted by the way his body betrays his mind every fucking time when it comes to him._

_His heart does a leap in his chest at the sight of him._

_His lungs stop taking in oxygen for-what it seems like forever- a mere second._

_His legs stop working._

_He’s not sure what is vertical or horizontal. He’s not sure if it’s his labored breathing or someone else’s. He’s not sure if it’s tunnel vision or his inclination._

_Michael winces as the curls get tangled around his fingers._

_The bed shifts under Michael momentarily. He stirs as he feels cool fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging gently away his own grip from under the strands of his hair._

_Michael freezes._

_Alex rubs circles with his thumb across his palm, using his other hand to tuck the hair falling over Michael’s eye, behind his ear._

_His fingers are ghostly, never tangible enough to feel real. If it weren’t for Michael watching from the corner of his eye, Alex’s very presence feels hallucinatory._

_Michael inhales and exhales slowly, tentative, as if he’s unable to breathe, unwilling to breathe. He feels stuck. Free for all it entailed, yet frozen as if his limbs had a mind of their own._

_“I’m gonna go take a shower.” Alex mumbles, climbing out of bed, says nothing as he walks towards the end of the hall, grabs open the linen closet, throws a towel over his shoulder before shutting the bathroom door behind him._

_Shit._

_Michael rubs his hand over his face, the heat emanating in his cheeks, warming his frisky palm. His fingers curl into his skin, brisk but-for-a-moment._

_Michael glances down the hall, the corners of lips tugging upwards as he hears Alex’s humming his rendition of ‘In these Arms’. His voice perfuses through the water dropping against the slab of the tiled floor, it punctures through the walls and settles into Michael’s ears- softly, calming his nerves and freeing him from his state._

_He looks down at the floor to stifle a snort._

_The irony of it all._

_The feeling of_ -

 

-Something uneasy and heavy settles in Michael’s stomach.

 

It was clear what Alex would prefer to hear. Michael shakes his head, clamping his mouth shut. Out of pure stubborn determination, Michael manages not to offer an answer.

 

It only makes Alex blink, only his parted lips give away how ardent he was about wanting to know.

 

“That’s real something,” Michael’s jeering, “ _What_ \- am I supposed to abstain myself, fore-go sex at the off-chance one day _you_ might consider me a possible-” he’s barking now, his voice barely an octave higher than raucous thunder.  

 

Michael finds himself fisting the air by his hips in fury. It’s been a decade, a goddamn decade since they’ve seen each other and yet, _he_ still manages to make him feel worse than he looks, manages to make his blood boil in his veins without even having to lift a goddamn finger.

 

“That’s not what-“ Alex’s shakes his head, lips faltering, “-no, that’s not-not what I mean, Guerin. I just-“

 

Michael waits, swallows down his indignation and _waits_ because he wants to _know_ what goes on in Alex’s mind. The back-and-forth, the hot-and-cold, the stolen glances, the rash encounters, the wistful words-all of it, he just wants to know what any of it meant to him because- _shit, he’s tired_.

  

“I still wonder, if you’re happy.” He says instead.

 

It knocks the air out of Michael. He has to lean against the bedrock to still his faltering composure. The ground beneath him shakes his fortitude and hinders his ability to center his thoughts.

 

Michael shuts his eyes close-

 

He takes a deep breath through his nose-ignoring the way Alex keeps his eyes trained steadily on his face.

 

“Are you?”

 

Michael clasps his hand in his palms, rubs his hands across his face and pulls them away to let out a weak-and-defeated laugh.

 

“It  _doesn’t_ matter.” He repeats.

 

“Guerin-“

 

“What I want,” his voice shakes, “it does _not_ matter.”

 

Those words, they were familiar. Alex recognizes them immediately and his face drops. His eyes wary, he looks down at his feet. He becomes transfixed on the sod beside his crane, kicks his slipper into the sluggish pit of dented soil.

 

Alex sighs-winces slightly as he turns on his heel. Michael’s teeth ground together as he watches Alex turn his back to him.

 

But he doesn’t make an effort to move.

 

Michael watches as his back heaves up, and down. Up and down. He stares at him-eyes fixated on his every move. It’s only when Alex tilts his face to his side does he see that he has that _look_ -that look of helplessness, the look of defeat, that look of apprehension that doesn’t suit him at all.

 

Michael's gut churns with fucking _guilt_ as he stills.

 

He takes a tentative step forward, a small one, so meager as to be considered insignificant.

 

“I’m sorry.” he laments, “that was out of line.”

 

Michael looks up at the sky, his cheekbones sharp as the sunlight washes over him, leaving his eyes shadowed and squinted.

 

“No, you’re right,” Alex concedes, faint and empty, “That’s none of my business. Never was. Never will be.”

 

Michael sighs under his breath.

 

He wants Alex to push back, press him, insist on knowing- because even if he hides behind a pretense of insignificance and nothingness, his actions would have meant more than what he said.

He wants to wait, although impatient, he can’t help but wait.

 

Because he doesn’t remember the last time he hadn’t lingered onto a thread of hope that his willingness to be persistent and forgiving would amount to something, one day.

 

Michael walks up beside Alex, nudging him slightly in the chest as he throws on a meager smirk-It’s laborious and makes Michael want to smash his fist into the gravel of the earth but he musters one up anyway-

 

Because it’s Alex.

 

Because he’s not sure when they would ever trek on a trail past-noon with beer in tow and an attitude to match it.

 

“Let’s not stop now,” he lifts the 3 cans of porter he held in a shoddy cardboard box, “I’ve always wanted to see what’s at the end of this trek.”

 

He grazes past Alex, picking up his pace as he takes another swig. His throat burns, fingers unsteady as he bucks the can in his curled fist and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans.

 

He doesn’t have to look back to recognize that Alex’s following suit.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr: okaywhateverokayyes


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